


Petrichor

by AceV



Category: None - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Fiction, Poetry, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-21 05:32:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 1,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15550722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceV/pseuds/AceV
Summary: A boy who won't touch ocean water and a girl who is terrified of birds feel drawn to one another by some unknown force...





	1. Prologue

It wasn’t always the birds  
That made her scream. 

Sometimes, sometimes,  
It was the rain. 

-Petrichor


	2. Sadness

Sadness so similar to satin  
Surreptitiously slid across skin;  
Scathing but soothing, so soothing  
Secrets swam in sullen eyes. 

Her name was Sylvia.  
Her name was a lie.


	3. Sylvia

Sylvia is a latin derivative of silva: woods.  
Sylvia is what the man and woman   
Named her upon her arrival into the world.  
But she was not received in the forest - such a blatant lie-; no,  
She was welcomed by a pool in the living room that day.   
A natural birth.  
Too bad it didn’t save her from being an unnatural child,  
Much to the man and woman’s dismay.  
Sylvia was a silent one, even from birth.  
Not even much mirth passed through her lips.  
When the woman bounced her on her hips, she wondered  
“Why?” Why did she turn out this way?  
But she could never quite say, could never quite name the cause.  
The doctors said she was fine; speech would come with time.   
Patience is something they would have to learn, and in turn,  
She would bloom.


	4. Careless

Careless connoisseur of crippled things  
Carefully congregated along craggy coasts.  
Captivated by circling crows  
Captured their circling with cameras. 

His name was Cyrus.  
His name was a promise.


	5. Father

His father had been a soldier,  
Long, long ago.  
And learned to know  
How to let go   
-In a time of crisis- his holster.  
In the service, he had a friend.  
He’s dead now.  
The bullets came down,  
And without a sound  
His buddy - Cyrus - met his end.  
Because he couldn’t get the gun  
In time.   
He’d be lyin’  
If he started tryin’  
To say it wasn’t his fault. It was.   
So he went home.  
Back to the tomb  
For a while roamed  
Then met a girl around Christmas.   
By next September they had a kid.  
Cyrus - their son.  
After the one   
He failed by gun.  
He’d protect him this time. He promised.


	6. Woods

Sylvia hated the woods,  
But they were her only reprieve  
From that house, from the children  
From the man, from the woman.   
So she went to the woods. 

Taller than the others,  
Stood a certain tree  
When she climbed it  
She felt safe  
Out of reach of others. 

Bag latched tight to her frame,  
She took hold of a limb,  
Grasped it like an outstretched hand.  
Sylvia reached for the next, and the next  
Until she could lean on the trees’ wooden frame. 

She pulled the bag from her back, pulled it out,  
Pulled her journal free  
And looked at the coastline  
Visible from the trees.   
She dug in her bag and pulled a pen out.


	7. Water

There was something about the water  
That drew him.

Maybe it was the surge of power under  
The turbid surface.

Maybe it was the way waves gathered,  
Crested, then fell.

Maybe it was the foam that formed  
Rabid and pervasive. 

But at least one, maybe all, called him  
Always searching. 

When he was away, the crashing waves  
Would stay,

But he would hear them, the emphatic  
Longing for his

Return. So he obliged the sirens surely   
Hidden under the waves,

And did.


	8. Pen

Thoughts had been running   
Through her head all day.   
She was trying to find a way  
To piece them all together  
(Although coherency seemed  
Out of reach today.)  
She put her ink to the page.   
What is to happen then  
If I succumb to my pen? -  
And stuck.  
Stuck.  
Stuck.  
She tried again.   
What is to happen then,  
If I succumb to my pen? -   
And her mind didn’t offer  
Any way to continue filling  
The vast white of the empty space.  
What is to happen then,  
If I succumb to my pen? -   
She looked at her pen,  
Gel, indigo, smooth.   
The best kind of pen.   
If she didn’t finish the poem now,  
She wouldn’t sleep tonight.  
What is to happen then,  
If I succumb to my pen? -   
Nothing apparently. Her mind  
Was so useless today.   
And Stuck.  
Stuck.  
Stuck.  
She tried again.   
If I succumb to my pen? -   
Frustrated, she closed her  
Eyes and sighed.


	9. Ocean

Cyrus never touched the ocean water.  
He knew he’d die if he ever did.  
His fears were confirmed after someone’s daughter  
Went in and never out again.

The restless nature of that opaque mass  
Was certainly unworthy of trust.  
Especially after it stole that poor lass.  
Especially when after death it lusts. 

And there was something about the endless  
Vastness of the sea that inspired fear.  
The potential violence of the current aimless  
But always threateningly near. 

No, he never touched the water,  
Only enjoyed the wet sand.  
Though he couldn’t help but wander  
Close to it now and again.


	10. Sun

Sylvia looked up  
And closely watched  
The setting sun  
As it passed  
Overhead. She admired  
The brilliance of   
Those final colours;   
She loved how  
Exaggerated they were  
At this time.   
Ferocious tangerine and   
Raging crimson and  
Acidic saffron and   
Bruise purple. Amazing.   
Who knew the   
Cusp of darkness  
Was so vibrant?  
Was so beautiful?


	11. Treasure

Cyrus walked along the coasts  
Like he always did and  
Studiously observed the breaking waves.   
They weren’t particularly high today  
But still, he remained vigilant.   
Wary, but still perfectly enthralled.   
He spent hours along the   
Water and had become a   
Sort of expert on tides.   
-For this area at least.  
Around this time of day,  
The sea released more treasures.   
There were few to be   
Found, unless you knew where  
To look. He always did.


	12. Birds

Sylvia had sat in the tree for a little  
While when she saw a bird flitting from   
Branch to branch and had to physically  
Stifle her scream with a firm hand around  
Her lips. How she hated the birds!   
Demonic spawns of evil, sin. Beady eyes  
And hungry beaks that seemed to know   
The things she’d think. Ornithophobia  
Was a strange affliction, one she held with  
Great conviction though there seemed to  
Be no apparent cause for her condition. The   
Longer she sat frozen the more likely her  
Scream would be loosed upon the forest.   
Such awful beasts these creatures were  
(at least to her). Another Sylvia particular,  
Another Sylvia quirk. One of many strange  
Temperaments she’d revealed after birth. The  
Evil thing finally caught a breeze and left  
Her to be. She could breathe. She could breathe.


	13. Who?

She’d been in the tree for hours by this point. 

She’d been thinking about the poem. 

She’d been staring at the page. 

She’d been thinking about going home. 

Butshehadtofinishthepoem  
Orshewouldn’tbeabletosleep  
Andshecouldn’tdothat-notagain  
Notaftersomanyexhaustingweeks

She took a breath - slowed her racing heart.

She held to the tree branches around her - held tight.

She knew she would stay out here until it was done.

She would stay - even if it took all the night. 

Shehastofinish  
Shehastofinish  
Shehastofinish  
Shehasto - 

Who is that?


	14. Carefull

Cyrus sat on the sand  
-though he almost ran  
When a wave came close.

On a dead tree, he sat  
Wished he brought a flat  
Stone instead. 

He had to be careful  
-nearly prayerful-  
So as not to fall through. 

The old bark was brittle  
And, well, Cyrus wasn’t child-little.  
He really should’ve sat somewhere else. 

But, alas, the view was perfect here  
And he couldn’t move, as he feared  
He would miss a treasure if he did. 

So he played this strange balancing act  
So in a moments notice, he could quickly react  
He just had to be patient. 

The minutes ticked by.  
He continued to watch the tide,  
Then he saw his chance.


End file.
